| My friend
|
| You’re always the last one to leave
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| Those dimly lit rooms
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| Making sure the last glass makes its way to the table empty
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| And every bottle in the place
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| Has been upside down at least a few times what a waste
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| Is this what’s left of you these days?
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| You’re not eighteen anymore
|
| Five years should have been enough time
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| For you to grow up and get over this
|
| It’s not too cool to be throwing up all morning sick
|
| From what you might have done or done it with
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| I swear if I could take your pain and frame it
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| And hang it on my wall
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| Maybe you would never have to hurt at all
|
| I’m painting pictures in red and blue
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| A portrait bruised just like you
|
| And now you’re walking away
|
| You’re not eighteen anymore
|
| Five years should have been enough time
|
| For you to grow up and get over this
|
| It’s not too cool to be throwing up all morning sick
|
| From what you might have done
|
| When is enough finally enough?
|
| All the hang-ups and the heartbreaks get you past
|
| All failures and bad breaks just accept yourself
|
| Find something that brings you closer to complete
|
| Painting pictures in red and blue
|
| A portrait bruised just like you
|
| And now you’re walking away
|
| You’re not eighteen anymore
|
| Five years should have been enough time
|
| For you to grow up and get over this
|
| It’s not too cool to be throwing up all morning sick
|
| From what you might have done or done it with
|
| When is enough finally enough?
|
| When is enough finally enough? |